Four Horsemen
by cosmo17
Summary: Russian civil war threatens the lives of thousands, including our beloved countries. Can the SAS save the fate of the world, or will the countries burn? Call of Duty 4/Hetalia crossover. R&R.
1. The Beginning of the End

__**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Call of Duty. If I did, I would rule the world!  
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_United Kingdom_

_Credinhill, SAS Base of Operations_

_2011, October, Day 1_

"Good news first. The world's in great shape. We've got a civil war in Russia, Government Loyalists against Ultranationalist Rebels, and 15,000 nukes at stake."

"Just another day at the office."

"Khaled Al Asad. Currently the most powerful man in the Middle East. Now word on the street is he's got the minerals to be top dog down there, intel's keeping an eye on him.

"And the bad news?"

"We've got a new guy joining us today, fresh out of selection. His name's Soap."

Two men sat in a small office, looking over pictures of several men and locations. They wore obvious military uniforms, their respective ranks stitched onto their sleeves. One of them was John Price, a Captain, and the other was Gaz, a Lieutenant. Captain Price wore a combat outfit, black and sleek, night vision headgear resting on his slightly balding head. He sported a large, well combed moustache, that covered the width of his face. He spoke in a deep, gruff British accent. Gaz had given him the status report on the current war.

Gaz, on the other hand, was young, around twenty five, and wore a camoflauge outfit, with many equipment pockets. He wore a baseball cap on his head, a small United Kingdom flag stitched into it. His face was cleanly shaven, and his accent was younger, and more carefree sounding. Still, he was dedicated to his work.

A picture of a tanned, Middle Eastern man lay in front of Captain Price. His headwear

was red, and he wore sunglasses. It was labeled 'Khaled Al Asad.' A second picture showed a military man, his head shaved into a neat mohawk. His eyes looked proud and determined, and Captain Price nearly laughed at the callsign he had been given. How any man could have been called 'Soap' was beyond him. The picture was labeled "Sergeant Jonathan 'Soap' Mactavish."

Still, if this man was to join the 22nd SAS Regiment at Credinhill, he would need to prove himself, not only in the firing range, but on the cargoship mockup in one of the hangers. The civil war in Russia was escalating, and it was affecting the Middle East as well. Ultranationalist forces had occupied much of Saudi Arabia as it was, and Al Asad was growing into an increasing threat to the safety of citizens.

It was mid afternoon when Soap Mactavish entered the armory, greeted by an uplifting, familiar soldier.

"Good to see you mate, grab one of the rifles from the table, and head to station one." Gaz greeted Soap kindly, patting his shoulder and pointing at the armory.

"Yes sir," Soap said briskly, hurrying to the table.

"Now go to station one, and aim your rifle down range," Gaz said, taking up a position in a viewing stand behind the firing range.

Soap did so, following Gaz's clear instructions as the targets popped up. He took them down quickly, with a surprising skill, considering his 'FNG' status. It seemed Gaz was the only man who complemented him around here, or did anything other than constant teasing and mild torture, to put it lightly. Soap was a bold man, dedicated to his cause. The SAS was the perfect escape for him, though not without some pain. He hadn't been to happy about his transfer to Credinhill, though it was necessary. The 22nd Regiment was the best the SAS had to offer, and Soap was astounded that they had selected him. The increasing threat in Russia and the Middle East was rapidly spiraling out of control, and needed the best men to fix it.

When he was done with his quick inspection, wiping watermelon juice from his face after he had torn his blade through one, Gaz spoke.

"Nice, your fruit killing skills are remarkable. Captain Price wants to see you."

Soap exited, thanking Gaz for the complements, and thought about his current situation. He was new here, and it was hard being new. So far, the others had created a hell for him, and he was repressing his feelings the best he could. All in all, he was _very_ nervous about meeting his new Captain, the intimidating Captain Price. Soap felt very out of place amongst the other British men. He was Scottish, born and raised. He knew other Scotsmen served in the SAS, but at Credinhill, it seemed as if everyone was British. His thick accent only separated him from the others even more, and it truly made him feel lonely.

He found the warehouse quickly, and the door opened slowly at his approach. He was greeted with four men, three wearing face masks, surrounding a lone man with a large moustache. Captain Price. One of the men leaned in and spoke in an uptight voice, his teasing obvious.

"It's the FNG sir."

Another spoke up, "Go easy on him sir, it's his first day in the Regiment."

Price just smirked, staring Soap down.

"Right, what the hell kind of a name is Soap, eh? How'd a muppet like you pass selection?"

Soap felt his face burning in humiliation, his eyes darting away. His Captain was tough, downgrading him in front of his squadron. Price quickly got down to business, nodding at the large wooden obstacle course behind him.

"Soap, it's your turn for the CQB test. Everyone else head to observation. For this test, you'll have to run the cargoship solo in less than sixty seconds. Gaz holds the current squadron record at nineteen seconds. Good luck. Climb the ladder over there," Price said, jabbing a thumb towards a ladder in the corner, before walking over to a row of screens with the other men.

Soap swallowed and grasped the cold ladder, climbing it swiftly. He glanced around at the top. A secure rope leading down into the course was to his right, and a gun and several canisters lay on a crate straight in front of him. Suddenly, he heard Price's voice calling to him.

"Pick up that MP5 and four flashbangs. On my go, I want you to rope down to the deck and rush to position one. Then head down the stairs to position two, then hit positions three and four, following my precise instructions at each position. Grab the rope when you're ready."

Soap was nervous, no, terrified. He grabbed the gun and flashbangs, then clambered over

to the rope. He took a breath, then slid down the rope.

"Go go go!"

Soap saw the targets pop as he landed, sending rounds into them quickly. Never before had he moved his feet so fast, while firing a live weapon. He threw the flashbangs around the corners, sending three round bursts into the inanimate targets. He raced through the course, nearly slipping at the last corner, grabbing the wall and sprinting to the red circle at the end, before stopping and breathing hard. He checked the time on his wristwatch. 17 seconds. _17 SECONDS_! He had beaten Gaz, the best in the squadron, at his own game! He glanced over at Captain Price, who looked astounded, before wiping away his expression.

"That was good. Not great, but good," was all he said.

Bullshit, was Soap's only thought. He knew that Price was at a loss for words at the

stunning performance, and it felt amazing. He shakily walked up to his Captain.

"Gentlemen, the cargoship mission is a go. Get yourselves sorted out, wheels up at 0200. Dismissed."

Soap grinned, thinking of how he would break the news of his triumph to Gaz. This could be the beginning of a great time.

_London, England_

_Unknown Conference Hall_

_2011, October Day 1_

Men and women of all ethnicities scrambled around the loud, busy conference room. The personification of nearly every country in the world was there, representing their respective lands. These people were countries, a long, complicated explanation of science and maybe magic, though it was rarely believed. They were great nations, invulnerable, unkillable, nations, born as their countries were born, dead as their countries were wiped from existence. Though they could be hurt, gravely. There were many causes of their pain. Suffering economy was one. War was another. Usually, they would fall ill when their economy suffered. War however, had a different effect, usually in the form of horrid physical trauma. That was why they had gathered for the world meeting.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you plan A!"

A young man in a brown bomber jacket stood at the head of the huge table, pointing at a picture of the world map. This was Alfred F. Jones, America. A bright smile was plastered on his face, and he pushed up his glasses, glancing around the room.

"This war in Russia is getting pretty bad, but we still have a chance to stop it before it turns into a nuclear disaster. We rid Russia of every last nuke, and we are ALL safe!" America yelled proudly, pointing at a large, silver haired man.

Russia stood, violet eyes twinkling, a smile played across his lips.

"That hardly seems fair America. If I recall, you still have secret stashes of nuclear weapons all over your country. Besides, you nearly murdered Japan in the forties," Russia said in a lighthearted tone, smiling in satisfaction.

America looked horrified, then angry, his face turning an embarrassed shade of red.

"Look, he attacked me first, and were over it, so shut up you damned commie!"

"Check your notes America, I'm not communist. Though if you wish, I will resort to that if I must," Russia said, a purple haze filling the room.

"NO!" The whole room yelled, and Russia just smiled and sat down, the haze dissappating.

Arthur Kirkland, England, stood. He was blonde with bright green eyes, and rather skinny.

"Look America, everyone is entitled to their weapons. It's a matter of keeping control over them. If we want to end the war, we have to go for the leaders, not the countries. We've learned that, havn't we?" England looked around, happy with the nods of agreement.

America looked a bit downtrodden.

"Alright fine. This Al Asad guy is a huge problem, and Saudi Arabia is suffering because of him. The U.S. Marines can take care of him easily," America said, looking proud at the mention of his marines.

"Okay, if that's what it takes. I'm sure Saudi Arabia will be pleased. How is this war effecting you Russia?" England asked, turning to the large nation.

"Oh, I can handle it. Just a little under the weather is all, a few scratches on my hand. There hasn't been to much destruction, though it seems the government has been shifting. It is a bit uncomfortable," Russia explained, holding up his hand to show the red lines of war.

"America, I've been meaning to ask you something," England said, after nodding to Russia.

"What's that dude?" America said, unwrapping a hamburger and taking a bit.

England rolled his eyes.

"Everyone else has agreed to stay neutral, but I want the SAS to back you up. I've already cleared it with my boss, he says we can send them to inspect an Ultranationalist cargoship tonight. It may have a nuke on board, and it's in the Bering Straight. Is that alright?"

America grinned happily.

"So, thought you'd back up the hero huh? Alright super sidekick, let's save the world!" America shouted, pumping his fist into the air.

England sighed, and Russia laughed happily. France smirked and leaned back, and Germany pinched the bridge of his nose. Everyone else looked a bit annoyed, yet relieved at the same time. It was about time they did something about this mess, now that they were all in danger of being dragged into a war. If Russia's government was shifting, who knew what could happen. Countries followed their leaders, and if this Al Asad became the leader... They were doomed.

"Plan A will go into action tomorrow. My marines will take out Al Asad and end this little war, no big deal," America said, very enthusiastic.

"That could endanger your men you know. These Ultranationalists are very skilled at what they do," Russia said, smiling at America.

America simply scowled.

"My marines are the heroes. Were saving your sorry butt, remember?"

"All due respect, but your plans never work."

"Shut up commie!"

"BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!" Germany roared, "Everyone who is for America's plan, say 'I.' All those who are neutral, say 'neutral' and everyone else, keep quiet!"

"I," England said, exasperated.

"Neutral," echoed around the room.

"Good. England, America, good luck in solving the conflict. Meeting dismissed," Germany said, nodding at the two nations.

"Dude, we totally have this! I'll save the world with Iggy at my side! How glorious," America chanted.

England groaned.

"Don't call me that. At least the SAS can back you up, and we can end this Ultranationalist dispute. Those humans are violent, and I would hate to see how Russia would act if _they_ controlled him."

Just then, England's cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out and looked, relief on his face.

"My boss has just cleared the cargoship operation. We'll solve the dispute in no time," England said.

"That's good, but we know I'm the hero! Tomorrow morning, we win!"

"Sure thing America...

**This is the start of a long crossover! I plan to cover all three Modern Warfare games. Enjoy! Review and I will give you bacon! :)**


	2. Escalating Threats

**Bering Straight**

**SAS Helicopter, 22nd SAS Regiment**

**October 2011, Day 1**

A storm raged above the churning sea, lightning and thunder claps echoing throughout the helicopter. Soap Mactavish sat in the back, jittery and anticipating the moment to come. His first real operation with the 22nd Regiment had become, and the men were solomn, most keeping to their own thoughts. Among them were Price, Gaz, Wallcroft, Griffin, and Mitchell. Two pilots sat quietly in the front, focused on the task at hand. Price spoke over the roaring waves and rain.

"The package is aboard a medium freighter. Estonian registration number 52775. There is a small crew and a security detail on board."

Gaz instantly perked up, ready with the question that everyone had been pondering since early that morning.

"Rules of engagement sir?"

"Crew expendable."

Price flicked open his lighter, quickly lighting a cigar. He smoked it contently, closing his eyes for a moment, before a new voice rang through all their earpieces.

"Hammer Two-Four, we have visual on the target, ETA sixty seconds."

"Copy Two-Four."

The pilots had announced it, and sure enough, it was there. Looming in the ocean, an abstract, industrial ship, foreign and bright. Spotlights shone from it, huge cargo crates stacked high across its deck. Price leaned out the window, taking in the sight. It was magnificent, and deadly. In about fifteen seconds, they would be carving through the ship in a live fire operation, engaging Ultranationalists in a firefight. Soap's heart was beating hard, and his stomach lurched as the chopper leveled into position. Price flung his cigar out into the storm, a small trail of sparks evaporating into the night. He pulled down and fastened his breathing apparatus, and Soap quickly followed his example. Flicking the safety off his MP5, he stood.

"Lock and load," Price's voice came through smoothly on their secured radio channel.

"Go, go, go!" Hammer Two-Four, the chopper's pilot's callsign, rang directly after.

The rope fell to the deck below, and they dropped.

"Weapons free," Price said calmly.

Soap took only a second to recognize enemy uniforms behind the windows of the bridge. In unison, the SAS raised their weapons and opened fire, silenced rounds piercing the windows. The men dropped, blood spraying as they fell. Price was quick to command them towards the door, then kicking open the metal door with ease.

"Bridge secure. Gaz, stay in the bird till' we secure the deck, over."

"Roger that."

"Squad, on me!"

Soap followed the Captain closely, a feeling of security washing over him as he knew he would be following this veteran soldier. They worked their way downstairs, and Soap rounded the corner. A man stumbled around the corner, clutching a bottle of liquor. He slurred drunkly in Russian.

"Drop him!" Price hissed, and Soap put three rounds into the soldier's chest.

"Last call," Price said.

Soap entered the room of the drunkard, finding two men asleep in their bunks. Knowing they would only be a danger if awakened, he quickly unsheathed his knife, driving it into each of their throats, silent kills.

"Good night," Mitchell said, satisfied at Soap's performance.

Soap felt glad he could impress the men, but a little woozy at the thought of stabbing the sleeping men.

"Forward deck is clear, green light on Alpha, go!" Hammer said, and the men rushed out into the raging storm.

**XxXxXxXxXx**

**London, England**

**Kirkland Residence, Arthur Kirkland**

**October 2011, Day 1**

England poured a cup of tea, biting his nails in worry. He knew it was a nasty habit, something that America would do, but he couldn't help it. He was worried. The radio on his counter echoed commands and hushed voices, the 22nd SAS Regiment voicing their mission. Of course, Baseplate had given him the radio channel.

_"Fan out, three meters spread."_

England glanced at the radio as the rough British voice of John Price played from it. Normally, he would fight alongside his men on important operations, but America, for some reason, had insisted he stay home. It had almost sounded protective of him, if that was possible. Though England regretted his choice to stay home, he still felt the need to keep close to his own people, especially when nuclear devices were concerned.

_"Got two on the platform."_

_"I see them."_

England bit his nails, awaiting the results.

_"Tango down."_

He breathed a sigh of relief, and dribbled a bit of honey into his tea, stirring it gently with his spoon. He took a sip and closed his eyes, leaning back in his dining room chair. A loud knock at the door made him jump, spilling a bit of tea down his front. He cursed loudly, then went to the door, wiping away the burning liquid as best as he could. The knocks repeated, and England grumbled, a bit annoyed. It was eleven at night, after all. To his surprise, France stood on his doorstep when he opened it. France was smiling that annoying, carefree smile, and England's expression darkened.

"Go away, I'm doing something important," he said, already shutting the door.

It met resistance as France blocked it with his foot, then eased his way into the manor.

"Angelterre, I had no idea you were into that kind of thing. Of course, if I were to join..."

"Bloody perverted frog, that is not what I meant! Why are you here?"

France smiled innocently.

"Just dropping by. My flight isn't for another few hours, and I wanted to see if you were alright. You seemed stressed at the conference, and I know the war is worrying you," he said, placing a hand on England's shoulder.

He ducked away and smacked the Frenchman's hand, before grumpilly replying.

"Why do you care so much? This conflict doesn't even involve you. Besides, I'm fine, it's America you should be worried about. He's sending in fifty Marines tomorrow afternoon, it could be dangerous..." England trailed off, a look of worry crossing his face.

"You're worried about him?" France questioned, a bit surprised.

"No! I just don't want to be dragged into something bigger because of him, that's all," England was quick to reply.

France's expression softened.

"He's tracking down Al Asad. He told me so himself, on his way out. Apparently he's going with them."

England gasped. America would be fighting alongside his troops tomorrow? Of course, they always fought with their men, though not for this kind of conflict. It was just a small operation, to secure a small coastal town. Why would America go with the marines?

Just then, a loud crackle erupted from the radio, the distinct sound of machine gun fire. England's eyes widened and he sprinted to the kitchen, leaving France and listening intently to the radio.

_"Hammer Two-Four, we've got tango's on the second floor."_ It was Price.

_"Copy, engaging."_

The crackle of gunfire was completely drowned out by a loud buzzing, the sound of clanging metal, and distant shouts.

_"Bravo six, Hammer is at bingo fuel, were buggin' out. Big Bird will be on station for evac in ten."_

_"Copy Hammer. Wallcroft, Griffen, cover our six. The rest of you, on me."_

_"Roger that."_

France realised what 'something important' was now.

"Angelterre, you need to relax. Your SAS is the best, they will be fine."

England was surprised. France, complimenting him? Comforting him? Maybe this Ultranationalist War was bigger than he thought.

"Come on, sit. Have any coffee?"

**XxXxXxXxXx**

**Bering Straight**

**Ultranationalist Freighter, 22nd SAS Regiment**

**October 2011, Day 1**

Soap fell into position quickly, watching in amusement at the small conversation that took place before him. Gaz, decked out in a full stealth suit, slung his MP5 on his hip, and fluently pulled a shotgun from his back, pumping it.

"I like to keep this for close encounters," he said, aiming at the door in front of him.

"Too right mate," Corporal Mitchell said, nodding.

"On my mark... go!" Price said, opening the door.

Price warned them to check their corners, moving carefully through the close hallways.

"Check those corners!" Price said harshly as Mitchell carelessly rounded a corner without a second thought.

They moved down the metal stairs, when footsteps and voices met their ears. Soap turned, catching movement in the corner of his eye.

"Movement right."

The moment the warning was given, a bullet panged off the wall next to Soap's left shoulder. He spun and ducked behind the railing, then swiftly raised his weapon. When he caught the movement through his sights, he fired three round bursts, confirming his kill as a spray of red filled the air at the end of the hallway. The others of the 22nd fired as well, taking down their targets swiftly.

"Tango down."

"Hallway, clear!" Price said, as they moved along the dark corridor.

Soap stepped over a body, grimacing at the sight of bullet wounds in the man's chest, a look of slight surprise permanently etched into his face. A sickening splatter of blood coated the wall, a single bullet hole at its center.

"Standby, on my go," Price said.

Gaz peered around the corner of the next door, and a line of bullets shot up. He whipped his head back, cursing quietly.

"Flashbang out, go," Price said, tossing the concussive grenade.

A bright light was visible from around the corner, and the spray of deadly bullets stopped. Soap rounded the corner, quickly taking in his surroundings. They were in a large room with many cargo crates, with two high catwalks on either side. They stood on the left catwalk, looking down on three men. They shielded their eyes, and one stumbled, grasping for something to hold on to. Soap fired again, and the stumbling man dropped. The others were greeted with a few well placed shots by Gaz and Price.

"Squad, on me," Price said, moving down the stairs, not even glancing at the bodies.

"Forward area clear."

"No tangos in sight, move up," Mitchell said.

The only path was a small one, around a tight corner of stacked crates. Soap had a constricting feeling in his chest. It was the perfect spot for an ambush.

"Keep it tight," Price warned.

Soap crouched slightly, then moved. Almost instantly, a loud battle cry echoed through the ship, and an Ultranationalist flung himself around the corner, a gleaming, silver pistol aimed right at Soap. Soap charged him, shoving him to the ground and ramming his knife into the man's heart, the pistol banging against the floor and sending off a deafening shot. Blood was rushing in Soap's ears, and he resheathed his knife, cursing. Gaz patted his back, and Soap nodded at the reasurrance.

"Gaz, right side," Price ordered.

"I'm on it."

They moved in formation to the next door.

"Stack up," Price said, and they prepared for another fight, reloading and checking their bullet counts.

Gaz kicked the door in, and they quickly moved up the stairs to their left.

"Movement right."

More tangos were running across a far catwalk. The room was very similar to the first. It was a bit of a longer shot, but they kept moving, avoiding the many bullets sent their way. They returned fire quickly, and the enemy fell, silence taking over once again. Soap could feel his heart pounding. They quickly moved, catching sight of an open door, the last room directly ahead.

"One ready," Gaz said.

"Two ready," Mitchell spoke.

"Three ready," Soap said, preparing himself, as bullets had already begun to fly from the doorway.

"On my mark-go!"

**XxXxXxXxXx**

**London, England**

**Kirkland Residence, Arthur Kirkland**

**October 2011, Day 1**

England hadn't realised that his knuckles were white as he clutched the table, listening to the tell-tale sounds of battle. Distant gunshots and even the loud crack of a grenade could be heard through the radio. France sat at his side, his hand resting on England's. He didn't even bother to remove it. A million thought's ran through his head. If the 22nd found a nuclear device on board, this whole conflict could turn into a whole new thing. With nukes in the picture... the war may not end well.

"They will be alright mon lapin. Don't fret," France said, but was quickly shushed by England.

A particularly loud gunshot vibrated through the radio, and England gulped.

_"Tango down. Report, all clear?"_

_"Roger that."_

England relaxed a bit, until he heard a small, repetative clicking noise in the radio.

_"I'm getting a strong reading sir. You might want to take a look at this,"_ a young man was speaking, though England wasn't sure who it was.

He heard a metal door swing open, and the clicking grew louder.

_"Hmm. It's in Arabic."_ The familiar voice of Captain Price was there now.

_"Baseplate, this is Bravo Six. We've found it. Ready to secure package for transport."_

England eased back in his chair, deeply relieved by the victorious report. France stood.

"I'd better go. Will you be-"

_"No time Bravo Six. Two bogies, headed your way, fast. Grab what you can and get the hell out of there."_

England shot up in his seat, his head suddenly very focused.

_"Fast movers. Probably MIGs, we'd better go."_

_"Soap, grab the manifest in the container, move!"_

England's stomach sunk. He couldn't lose the 22nd, they were the best he had. If the Ultranationalists were going to bomb their own ship to stop the SAS, then this war was getting out of hand, fast.

_"Alright, everyone topside, double time!"_

Price was hurrying them. England had met the man once, and had never imagined he could get worried. But he sounded it right now.

_"Wallcroft, Griffin, what's your status?"_

_"Already in the helicopter sir! Enemy aircraft, inbound! Shit-"_

With that, a loud bang literally shook England's radio, and he shot up and shouted, "NO!"

**XxXxXxXxXx**

**Bering Straight**

**Ultranationalist Freighter, 22nd SAS Regiment**

**October 2011, Day 1**

"Bravo six? Bravo six, come in, what's your status?" The panicked voice of Big Bird was pounding in Soap's ears.

One moment, there had been a huge crash, and the men were thrown to the ground, a large explosion tearing through the ship, and the next, they were laying in a foot of sea water. Soap had hit his head on the metal floor, and his ears were ringing. His headgear had taken most of the impact, but it still dazed him.

"Shit! What the hell happened?"

"The ship's sinking, we've got to go, now!" Gaz shouted, scrambling to his feet.

Soap tried to hoist himself up, but the water just made him slip. He saw Captain Price stumble towards him, yelling into his microphone.

"Big Bird, this is Bravo Six, were on our way out. On your feet soldier, we are leaving!" Price shouted, grabbing Soap's arm and pulling him up.

They ran, up the stairs. Water was pouring in through the walls and the ship was listing horribly to the left. It was sinking fast. The entire freighter was falling apart, chunks of metal and cargo crates slamming loudly into the far wall. A section of wall burst open and the ship lurched violently, throwing the men to their knees.

"Back on your feet, move!" Price roared.

Soap stumbled through the waterfall of ocean water, spitting out the salty spray. The catwalk vibrated under his feet, and another huge bang sent them to their knees again. Soap quickly pushed himself forward, as the catwalk began to rise.

"It's breaking away!" Gaz shouted.

"Let's go, come on, come on!"

They ran fast, slipping and stumbling on loose metal and water.

"Watch the pipe!"

A large pipe burst open and collapsed near Soap, who moved his head just in time.

"Talk to me Bravo Six, where the hell are you?"

"Standby, were almost there!

"Which way's the helicopter?"

"To the right, to the right!"

Soap narrowly dodged an air conditioning unit that was sliding across the hallway floor, as the ship was now leaning in the opposite direction. They ran out onto the deck, rainwater pouring down, thunder and lightning seemingly more vicious than ever.

"Keep moving!"

"Where the hell is it?"

Soap could feel himself slowing down. He urged himself to run, but his legs were on fire, and the rainwater didn't help either. Then, it was there, the helicopter hovering so valiantly at the crest of the sloping deck. He saw his teammates, one by one, stepping into its safe clutches. But the freighter was tipping, and so was Soap. The back of the chopper was a foot away, then three, then five.

"JUMP FOR IT!"

Soap lept, soaring through the air. The world seemed to stop around him, and his chest slammed into the slippery metal. He grasped the chopper, but his legs were hanging out, and he was sliding backwards. He yelled for help, desperately trying to gain hold of the soaked surface. Just as he was sure he would fall into the relentless, deadly ocean, a hand grasped his wrist tightly. He looked up to see Captain Price.

"Gotcha!" he said, pulling Soap into the chopper.

"Were all aboard, go!"

"Roger that, were out of here. Baseplate, this is Big Bird. Package secured, returning to base, out."

Soap just lay there, breathing heavily, staring out at the sinking ship. That was one hell of a first operation.

**XxXxXxXxXx**

**London, England**

**Kirkland Residence, Arthur Kirkland**

**October 2011, Day 1**

England sat back, dumbstruck. Moments ago, he had nearly lost an entire squad, and the Ultranationalists were transporting nuclear weapons. The news was likely to piss off America beyond belief, and only make him want to take down Al Asad faster.

"France, I think America and Germany should know about this. Could you pass me my phone?" he said.

"Oui, mon ami, here you go," France said, a bit concerned at England's tone.

"On second thought, could you grab me some aspirin while you're up? Third cupboard, left side," England said.

"Oui, take these and call them. What's your next move?"

England held up a finger, and shushed him.

"Yes, I need Baseplate, right away. Thank you."

There was a pause.

"Ah, hello, this is Kirkland. Thank you. I need a status update on our Russian informant."

"You have a Russian informant?" France asked, quite intrigued.

England shushed him, and a look of horror crossed his face.

"Wait, slow down! What the bloody hell is wrong with Saudi Arabia? Hospitalized, what- I understand, get the 22nd on the phone right now. They're going to Russia."

England hung up, then turned to France with bloodshot eyes.

"What's wrong mon ami?" France asked, worried now.

"They killed Al Fulani."

**A/n: Exactly one week! I plan to update every Friday, though if I am in a creative mood I will go faster :) You can all be sure to see our good friend from the Modern Warfare series in the next chapter, and the war only grows more deadly! Also, should I add an OC of Saudi Arabia? Any pointers? Review and you can hug Soap!**


	3. Hostile Takeover

**Saudi Arabia**

**Capital City**

**2011, End of Day 1**

Saudi Arabia. It was hot, sunny, and loud. The capital city was a chaotic scene of death and war, though it seemed everywhere was nowadays. Ivan Braginski stood in a large corral, dozens of soldiers surrounding him, cheering loudly. They were heavily armed, prepared for battle. Shouts of Arabic echoed around the tall nation, who gazed around awkwardly, trying to take it all in. These were not his people, but a people suppressed and only now coming out to show their true form. Al Asad's army, the OpFor, an Arabic rebellious group, were taking over. His boss had called him, immediately sending him here, to the capital city. He had sounded sincere, and had told Russia that he would soon be 'under new management.' It appeared that Russia would be witnessing the beginning of a war, 'an evolution' his boss had said. So he stood here now, excited by this change. He turned his attention to a large balcony above the corral, where a few men stood, a lone camera, and a microphone in front of them. He quickly recognized Al Asad, the Arab man America wished to take down. The thought of America made Russia shiver in anger and annoyance, but he shoved his feelings aside. This was much more important.

**XxXxXxXxXx**

"Get up scoundrel!"

Al Fulani, respected president of Saudi Arabia, lay bloody on the floor of a church. He had prayed this day would never come, though it appeared his words had been in vain. Two OpFor soldiers had broken down the door and beat him relentlessly, before he could utter a word.

"Please... My people... do not hurt them..." he wheezed, blood dripping from his lips as he spoke.

The soldiers simply laughed, hauling him to his feet. They slung their arms under his shoulders and Fulani simply hung limp. He would not walk to his fate. These horrid men could drag him there, for all he cared.

"We can't be late. Get him to the car," one OpFor soldier said.

So, they dragged him. Fulani could not shield his eyes as he was dragged out into the blazing sunlit courtyard, where dozens of soldiers stood.

_"Today we rise again as one nation, in the face of betrayal and corruption!"_

Fulani looked around, confused. Could that have been the voice of Al Asad? What was it now? Televisions. Speakers, all around. Radios and electronics, blaring the evil voice of Khaled Al Asad. He was beginning his speech. Before he knew it, Fulani was thrown forcefully into a yellow car. He gazed around it, confused. Two men sat in the front. The passenger turned, sneering at the President and speaking a few words of Russian. What the hell were Russians doing in Saudi Arabia? This man appeared to be in his middle ages, with a slightly balding head. He had black eyes and thick eyebrows, and wore a blue jumpsuit, nothing like any military uniform. This man was not OpFor. Fulani scrambled for the door, desperate to be away from this man, though to no avail. He was greeted with the hard butt of an AK47, smashing his left eye, which stung horribly. He collapsed backward, and the car lurched forward.

**XxXxXxXxXx**

_"We all trusted this man to deliver our great nation into a new era of prosperity. But like our monarchy before the Revolution, he has been colluding with the West with only self interest at heart!"_

Russia didn't quite understand the Arabic language that flowed gracefully from Al Asad's tongue, though it was getting the OpFor soldiers very wound up. They were cheering, a few firing their weapons into the air. Al Asad himself was pumping a fist into the air as he spoke, rallying the men around him. They went wild at his words, and Russia merely smiled. He was not quite sure how to react.

"A wonderful sight, da?" a deep Russian growl spoke next to him.

Russia turned fast, a bit surprised. He did not think there would be other Russians here.

"Oh, da. Who are you?" Russia asked, eyeing the man.

He wore a long grey overcoat, which looked rather strange considering the heat. His head was bald, and his face bore many wrinkles. He was an older man, though his black, beady eyes looked alive with fire and determination. Russia had never seen someone quite like him before, and it was almost hard to believe he was from his own country. The most interesting feature was the man's right arm, or the lack of it. It was completely missing from his sleeve.

"A friend. I know who you are Ivan, and I know what you must be thinking. Before you ask, this has everything to do with you. It will soon be clear why." The man spoke deeply, and even Russia shivered a bit at this new figure.

It was strange, this man knew Russia well. His name, and even the question on his mind.

"Well, can't you tell me now? What has an Arab revolution got to do with me? Russia is fighting its own civil war, why should we care about this?"

The one armed man stared into Russia's violet eyes, before speaking again.

"This will decide the fate of our country. Believe me."

**XxXxXxXxXx**

_"Collusion breeds slavery! And we shall not be enslaved!"_

Al Fulani sat stiff in the back of the car. He was intrigued by both the passenger in front, and the chaos around them. He was torn from looking at the Russian, to looking out the window. The Russian had just finished a phone call, speaking in hushed words, though it was clear the subject was Fulani. He had turned to stare at him while talking. Outside the window was another story. Fulani watched as civilians fled through the crowded streets, only to be cut down by machine gun fire, as OpFor soldiers paraded around them. They were on the coast. The roar of jet engines could be heard, and fighter jets flew by fast. Fulani turned to watch in horror at a line of unarmed civilians, pushed up against a wall, their hands tied behind their backs...

OpFor soldiers lined up in front of them, then raised their weapons. A hail of relentless bullets sprayed blood all over the wall, civilians dead...

_"The time has come to show our true strength. They underestimate our resolve. Let us show that we do not fear them. As one people we shall free our brethren from the yoke of foreign oppression!"_

__**Saudi Arabia**

**Undeclared Hospital in the South**

**2011, End of Day 1  
><strong>

England, America, and France hovered by the television in the hospital lobby. They all appeared anxious, tuned in to the national channel, that Al Asad appeared to be broadcasting from live. The Saudi Arabian hospital was bleak and dingy, but completely necessary. They had come of their own accord, to visit the personification of Saudi Arabia himself. As far as they knew, he was dying, and fast. It took a great deal to kill a country, but if the reports were true...

"Mr. Kirkland? Jones? Bonnefoy? He's ready," a young male doctor appeared suddenly, startling the three from their thoughts as he spoke in his heavy, middle-eastern accent.

"Thank you so much. How is he?" England spoke.

"Not good Mr. Kirkland. His condition is worsening," the doctor said.

The three exchanged worried glances, before they were outside the door.

"Remember, do not be alarmed. He does have some severe injuries, so be ready."

The three nodded solemnly. They had seen plenty of battle wounds before, and had the scars to prove it. Some never really faded away. The door swung open, and the doctor waved them in, before departing elsewhere. The three nations gasped at the sight of the man in the hospital bed in front of them. The once powerful middle eastern nation of Saudi Arabia, lay in bed, covered in bandages, wired to IV cords.

"Heh, not as- bad- as it looks..." Saudi spoke softly, coughing a bit.

America was the first to step forward.

"Hey Saudi. Feeling okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"Fine... just- fine. A- America. Get the... get the bastard who- did this... to me," another coughing fit, and America placed a hand on the nation's shoulder.

"Don't worry dude. Tomorrow, my boys will get Al Asad. We'll fix you up," America said, looking to the other nations for support.

England walked over, and France completed the circle around the bed. England spoke next.

"The SAS is digging up everything they can, though I believe America will be able to help you in the middle east. I still have the Russian Civil War to contend with," he said, locking eyes with America at this statement.

"Mon ami, these two are excellent fighters. I back them up all the way," France said soothingly.

Normally England would have found something smart to say to this, but he figured now was not the time. Suddenly, the doctor burst into the room, switching on the television.

"You all must look, now! Nurses, get the medical equipment ready, stat! We have a problem. Dammit, morphine, now! This will likely be painful!" The doctor shouted, nurses scrambling into the room.

The four nations were suddenly very alert, staring intently at the screen. Whatever was going on, was not going to end well.

**Saudi Arabia**

**Capital City**

**2011, End of Day 1**

_"Our armies are strong and our cause is just. As I speak, our armies are nearing their objectives, by which we will restore the independence of a once great nation."  
><em>

The crowd was wild. Russia looked around, searching for the one armed Russian, who had disappeared into the crowd. The men had been pushed back into the stands of the corral, preparing for the beginning. Russia was excited. It had been quite some time since he had seen something like this, and it was sure now, seeing the large, wooden, blood-splattered pole in the center courtyard. Russia found himself cheering with the others, not quite knowing why. Soon, he spotted the Russian, at the entrance to the corral, standing some distance from Al Asad, who was positioning a camera at the wooden pole. He spoke into it again.

_"Our noble crusade has begun. Just as they lay waste to our country, we shall lay waste to theirs."_

President Al Fulani had a horrible feeling in the bottom of his stomach. The car was working its way down a street, absolutely full of OpFor soldiers, firing their weapons into the air, cheering. The Russian in the front turned to look at him, smiling lightly. He looked very satisfied with himself, and that was a bad thing. The car stopped. Fulani turned to look to his right, and saw an armed soldier walking towards the car. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, his pulse echoing in his ears. The soldier opened the door, and grabbed Fulani by the front of his bloody suit. The man began to drag him out, and Fulani desperately clawed at the seat, anything to escape. It did not help. He was thrown to the ground with quite some force.

"Please..." he said, reaching up to stop the soldier over him.

Everything went black as the man's boot connected with his face.

**XxXxXxXxXx**

Russia watched excitedly as suddenly, the men around him grew quite. All heads were turned to the entrance of the corral, watching with hope, and happiness. The changing of a nation was always something to appreciate, at least, that's how Russia felt. It was soon clear what would happen. Two soldiers carried in a broken, bloody man. He was staring at the ground, but was brought to the one armed Russian. He took his chin in hand and forced his head up to stare into his eyes, growling at him, before nodding to Al Asad. The soldiers dragged Fulani forward, and tied him to the bloody pole. The OpFor began to cheer, and the world around Fulani seemed to stop.

Al Asad walked to the Russian, waiting expectantly. Russia watched with glee as he drew a gleaming silver pistol from his coat, holding it and pointing it at Al Asad. The Arab did not appear surprised at all, simply waiting. With a nod of understanding, the Russian flipped the pistol swiftly between his fingers, grasping it by the barrel. Al Asad took the weapon, and walked swiftly to face the camera.

_"This is how it begins."_

Al Asad turned, walking slowly towards Fulani. The President didn't say a word as the evil man raised his weapon, staring hard into Fulani's eyes. He cocked the weapon, and the metalic sound rang out above the cheers of the soldiers. Fulani stared down the barrel of the pistol. The last thing he saw was a bright orange flash, heard a loud bang, and the world went dark.

**Saudi Arabia**

**Undeclared Hospital in the South**

**2011, End of Day 1  
><strong>

"NO!" England screamed, and the rest of the nations whirled around, to meet the eyes of Saudi Arabia.

The country's eyes rolled back, and a bloodcurdling scream filled the room. Fulani was dead. Executed, on national television. Chaos soon followed. Saudi Arabia shrieked in pain, tears streaming down his face. A nurse quickly injected the morphine, and the doctor was quick to restrain the country. America had rushed over to help, and France was holding his head in his hands, groaning. This was to far. Nobody had seen something like this in hundreds of years. The crime would not go unnoticed. England, however, was terrified. These men had just executed their former president, an unspeakable act of war. America really had no idea what he was up against. Suddenly, England felt a hand on his shoulder. America.

"Bloody hell, what are we going to do?" England said desperately.

"He'll live, but not for long. I can stop this. It's time for me to go," America said, brushing past him.

"America, I want to help!" England shouted.

"You just focus on the Ultranationalist war. These are two different things Britain. Right now, our top priority is Al Asad. Just focus on the Russians," America said, turning and walking out.

England sat down, his head spinning. Saudi was nearly dead, though his screams had stopped. He was still sobbing in his bed, but nearly unconscious. France sat next to the British nation.

"America will stop this. What is your team doing?" he asked.

"I'm going with them late tonight. My plane should be there just in time. Captain Price has accepted me as a Private in their squad, to rescue our informant in Russia."

"Better head out then huh?" France said, sighing.

"Yeah. Stay with Saudi awhile, will you? He needs any moral support he can get."

"Oui. I will. Be careful mon ami. Those Russians are terrifying."

England chuckled a bit.

"Yes, well... I've got a plane to catch. See you later, frog," he said, adding the insult for good measure.

"Oui eyebrows, see you later."

England scowled, but decided not to say anything. The SAS awaited.

**A/n: Yay yay yay, I wanted to do this chapter badly! How was it? Now that were past the boring introductions, we can really get to the crossoverness of this crossover! England going to Russia with Price, Soap and Gaz? America fighting alongside his fellow Americans in Saudi Arabia? Exciting! And thank you to all who reviewed this story, it gives me inspiration to write more and more!** **Oh, and sorry about all the scene switching. This was kinda all over the place, but I enjoyed the result. Hope everyone else does as well! :D**


	4. Private Kirkland

**Russia**

**Airfield near the Caucasus Mountains**

**2011, Day 2  
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England stepped off his private plane, glancing around wearily. This was enemy territory now, and quite frankly, he was nervous. The 22nd SAS squad would be meeting him here, but now, he was completely alone. He took the time to head into a small waiting area, unstrapping his duffel bag. It was filled with high tech gear, night vision goggles, armor, a grenade belt, and full uniform. He pulled on the heavy equipment, not used to wearing armor again. Of course, he always fought with his troops during times of war, and it never grew old. Maybe France sugar coated the notion of warfare, but not England. When it came down to it, senseless killing was all it was. The thing was, he was actually good at it. He would never imagine killing someone, taking a life, other than during times of conflict. Then, there was no hesitation. Really though, how could he explain to someone his position? If he was hit in battle, he would not die. He was a country, invincible to common weapons, but they did sometimes leave scars. Either way, he still viewed it as 'kill or be killed.'

"Private Kirkland, glad you could make it."

England turned, finding three men standing before him. One he immediately recognized as John Price, the Captain he had trusted with the cargoship mission. He wore a camouflage boonie hat, and carried two M4A1 assault rifles, fitted with silencers. The two other men he did not recognize. They were both younger than Price, and one had a baseball cap. The other sported a mo-hawk atop his head.

"Captain Price, nice to see you again," England said, holding out his hand.

They shook briefly, then they began to converse.

"Kirkland, this is Gaz, and Soap. They proved themselves during our operation last night, and will be assisting us. Gaz is our intelligence operator, and Soap is our designated sniper. You will be assisting me personally, as we continue our mission. Speaking of which, Gaz, status report?"

Gaz, the man in the hat, stepped forward.

"Captain Price, Al Asad just executed President Al Fulani on national television."

"The American's have plans for Al Asad, and it's to late to do anything for Al Fulani, but in less than three hours, code name 'Nikolai' will be executed in Russia."

Gaz looked interested, raising an eyebrow.

"Nikolai, sir?"

"Nikolai is our informant in the Ultranationalist camp. He supplied the Intel on the cargo ship operation."

England gave a nod of approval. He had met with Nikolai before, possibly the only Russian he could ever fully trust. He was also one of the only men in the field that knew of England's background, his 'abilities.'

"Nikolai's in hell right now, were gonna walk him out. We take care of our friends. Lets move."

England followed the three burly SAS men. They walked swiftly, with a purpose. England quickly fell into step behind them, as Price spoke lowly to the rest of them.

"We set down in a field to the North, and work our way through the swamps. We get to the Northern Valley from there. There should be small numbers of enemy Ultranationalists, if our Intel is correct."

England felt his heart rate increase. It had been some time since he had seen live combat, and now he could feel the inevitable killing closing in. A helicopter sat waiting for them at the edge of the airfield that England had not noticed before. Price turned and passed his second rifle to England, who grasped it firmly, returning Price's small nod. They boarded the helicopter, Price and Gaz sitting on one side. England sat next to Soap, who, so far, had not said a word.

They took off, and Soap drew a small black book from his pocket. He flipped it open and took a small pen from his belt, scribbling in it. England could only assume that it was a war journal. He wondered if he should make small talk, but the man looked very into whatever he was writing. England took a small peak over, as it seemed he was hiding the journal from the others. He nearly burst into a fit of laughter at a small sketch of the face of Captain Price, his large mustache incredibly detailed. The ride was short and silent. They set down in a small field, and Price surveyed the area before motioning them into the trees. They silently worked there way through brambles and mucky grounds. Soon, they stood in a full swamp, a small house and a bridge in view ahead.

"The Loyalists are expecting us half a click to the North. Move out," Price said, pointing to the bridge.

"Loyalists eh? Are those the good Russians, or the bad Russians?" Gaz inquired.

Price smirked.

"Well they wont shoot us on sight, if that's what you're asking."

"Yeah well that's good enough for me sir."

England's breath sharpened as he spotted two enemy soldiers standing outside the small house. One surveyed the swamp from a small dock, and another leaned against the wall of the house, smoking a cigarette. He raised his rifle, reading to take the man on the dock, when suddenly, the soldier's head jerked back and a small spray of blood appeared in the air. The man fell with a splash into the swamp, and the other man threw his cigarette, running over. He was dead just as quickly, as another bullet pierced his heart. England turned quickly, murmuring a curse, to see Soap, holding his sniper rifle and grinning. England cursed, the man had scared him terribly. Soap motioned to the house, and England nodded, moving to the open door. Two more men stood inside, staring at a flashing television screen.

"On three," Soap muttered.

"One... two... three!"

England squeezed the trigger, watching in disgust as the man fell, blood splattering onto the wall. Soap quickly silenced the other.

"Good work. There should be a few more guard posts up ahead. Kamarov and his men will be waiting for us in a field to the Northwest."

Soap gave England an approving glance, and they continued to the bridge. England didn't know why, but he enjoyed the company of these men. Captain Price made you feel unexplainably safe, Gaz was funny, and Soap was good natured, friendly, and quiet. They trudged through the marsh, spotting another set of houses along a small hill. The shadows of men moved inside. They kneeled a small distance from the houses. Gaz patted Soap's shoulder.

"Soap, plant a claymore in front of the door, then get their attention. Kirkland, get the other door."

Soap passed England a claymore mine, and England eyed it hesitantly. With any luck, he wouldn't blow himself up. He lay on his stomach and worked his way past the house, a small thought of his uniform getting dirty as he crawled past, working at his mind. He shoved it away, remembering where he was. He spiked the claymore into the dirt, and saw Soap give him the thumbs up as he backed away a bit. England spotted a man asleep in a chair on the porch of a second house. He quickly walked over, staring at the man. Then, he yelled, grabbing the man by the shirt and heaving him off the chair. The man rolled down the hill, screaming, but was silenced by a spray of bullets from Gaz. England's blood was pumping as he entered the house, two men waiting there. He raised his weapon and squeezed the trigger. Two explosions and screams cut short told him that their work was accomplished.

"Good night," Price's voice echoed through his earpiece.

They walked up the hill and into a small house. England looked over at Soap, who waited patiently at the closed door.

"Been awhile since I've done this," England said, a bit shaky.

"It get's easier lad. You wouldn't be human if you didn't feel after killing someone," Soap said.

England saw the wisdom in his words. The young man was bright for someone so large and strong. England liked the man, feeling a brotherly attachment already. He was Scottish, and England felt a bit guilty at the thought of Soap being a better brother than Scotland himself, even if it was true. Price quietly opened the door, peering around it. England stepped out into the deserted field, when suddenly, a horrible stench met his nostrils. It was definitely body odor, as if someone hadn't showered in days. He was disgusted.

"Gaz, you smell that?" Price said loudly.

"Yeah, Kamarov."

England quickly detected the source of the awful smell, as a man walked from a large bush to the right, his rifle in the air as an act of peace. The man was huge, muscular, and a bit chubby. His face had stubble, and his eyes were black. He wore the Russian Loyalist uniform, the government army of Russia. The 'good Russians' in Gaz's words.

"Welcome to the New Russia, Captain Price," the man said warmly, walking to Price.

Kamarov's voice was deep, but smooth. England thought it was a bit annoying. He turned and saw that Soap had wrinkled his nose a bit. The smell was clearly noticeable.

"What's the target Kamarov? We've got an informant to recover," Price said quickly.

Kamarov waved his hand at the empty field, and England gasped as about ten men rose from the field. The Russian's walked over, standing behind their Commander.

"The Ultranationalists have BM21's on the other side of the hill. Their rockets have killed hundreds of civilians in the valley below," Kamarov said, nodding his head at a pathway, leading up a steep hill.

"Not so fast," Price said, a hand on Kamarov's shoulder.

"Remember Beirut? You're with us."

Kamarov hesitated, then waved off his men.

"Hm. I guess I owe you one."

"Bloody right you do," Gaz said under his breath, though only the SAS could hear it through their earpieces.

England was a bit disappointed that Kamarov would be joining them. The smell was unbearable, though perhaps it would be better without the other ten Russian soldiers following them. They walked up the hill swiftly, passing a small, decrepit playground. England felt sad at the thought of children here, at somewhere so filled with war and death. He also thought of America, when he was just a small nation. He loved the swings, said that he was 'flying like a hero.' England smiled and continued.

Kamarov whispered something in Russian to his men, and they departed. He quickly went back to English, speaking to them.

"This way. There's a good spot where your sniper can cover my men," he said, glancing at Soap.

Soap nodded and headed down a dirt path. It was a perfect sniping position, overlooking the entire valley. Soldiers paraded around two trucks, rockets in the back. They suddenly fired off into the distance, disappearing into the mountains. England didn't want to think about how many innocent lives had just been taken by the barrage.

"Sniper team in position, Gaz and Kirkland, cover the left flank."

"Roger, covering left flank," Gaz said.

"Yes sir," England said obediently, walking with Gaz further down the path, positioning themselves defensively at a small burning house at the end.

Soap fired the first shot, and the battle had begun.

**Saudi Arabia  
><strong>

**U.S. Army Headquarters  
><strong>

**October 2011, Day 2**

America woke early, while it was still dark. He glanced around his tent, yawning and stretching. At midday, he would be headed to a small coastal town where Al Asad had recently been located. The U.S. Marines had been called in, and America had already spoken with General Shepherd. Shepherd had stationed a large number of troops in the middle east, promising to crush the OpFor, and Al Asad. He swore that the country would be freed by their hand. Over thirty thousand Marines were on station, and ready for battle. The war would be won at all costs.

Alfred headed over to the truck depot, spotting a group of men from his own squadron. He decided it would be best to go and at least make some conversation with them. He would be fighting alongside them later today, after all. As he walked over, he couldn't help but think about England. By now he would be in Russia with that Captain Price, fighting Ultranationalists. But that was another war altogether, and Alfred had a feeling that England would be alright. He had spoken quite highly of Captain Price in the past, and appeared to trust the man.

The three marines looked up wearily at the confident man that strode towards them. The largest of them stood. He was African American, enormously muscular, and very intimidating. A Lieutenant's insignia was stitched into his sleeve, and a name tag read 'Vasquez' on his chest. Alfred quickly glanced at the other name tags, one reading 'Griggs' and the other 'Jackson'. Jackson had plain features on his white, battle hardened face. Griggs was also African American, very muscular, though a bit younger than Vasquez. Vasquez placed a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Up bright and early Private Jones?" Vasquez's voice was rough and deep.

"Yes sir," America replied, smiling.

Griggs huffed good-naturedly.

"Yeah, excited for the mission, huh Private?" he said in a smooth, young, charismatic voice.

"Sure. Faster we can end this war, the better, right?"

"My thoughts exactly," Jackson said.

His voice was young and eager, and the man appeared to be in his mid-twenties.

"The OpFor are dangerous. Our intelligence has recently told us that they may be being supplied by the Russians."

America's smile faltered.

"The Russians? They're fighting their own war though..."

Griggs chuckled.

"Yeah, it's those damned Ultranationalists. Handing these OpFor guys AK's and shit, god only knows why," he said, lighting a cigarette.

America was confused now. He wondered if Ivan knew of his Ultranationalist group funding the OpFor? Why would they care about the Middle East? It wasn't their fight. Perhaps he would look into it later.

"Weird. Well, better get ready, right?"

"Yeah, come on, I'll show you around." Jackson said, leading America away with a friendly gesture.

**XxXxXxXxXx**

**Russia**

**Cacausus Mountains**

**October 2011, Day 2**

"Bloody hell, get your head down!" Gaz yelled.

Arthur ducked, a bullet splintering into the wall behind him. All hell had broken loose at the first sniper shot. Alarms began to blare, and dozens of Russian soldiers had begun to pour out of the houses in the village below, firing at anything that caught their eye. Price shadowed Soap, watching as the Scotsman picked off targets carefully and accurately.

"Nice shot, Macmillan would be impressed," Price had said at a particularly clean head shot.

England knew he had heard the name Macmillan somewhere before, but he wasn't sure from where. He put the thought away and focused on the task at hand. Suddenly, the familiar buzzing sound of helicopters could be heard, and two birds had flown in, dropping their men into the battlefield. Arthur watched as Kamarov's men took cover, as new Ultranationalist reinforcements found their way into the battle.

"Damn! Enemy helicopters," Kamarov cursed, then waved them towards a burning building at the end of the pathway.

"You didn't say there would be helicopters Kamarov," Price said, a bit irritated.

Kamarov was quick with his response.

"And I didn't say there wouldn't be any either. Quickly, we have to protect my men from those helicopter troops. This way!" Kamarov said, breaking into a slow run towards the building.

Arthur stayed close to his squad, terrified at the idea of real fighting. It had been quite some time since he had seen any, and now, there was no more avoiding it. Soap gave him a reassuring nod towards the building, patting his shoulder as he jogged past. England swallowed and followed the men. When they had reached the door, Gaz's voice came through their private microphones.

"We should just beat it out of him sir," he said lowly, nodding at Kamarov.

England was curious at just what Gaz meant by this statement, then realized that he was referring to information on their informant. Kamarov had neglected to tell them anything yet. Just then, shouts began to echo from the hill, and England turned. Russian troops were running down the hill, firing at them. He dodged behind a rock just in time. He raised his weapon and fired, watching as a man fell, several rounds in his chest. The battle was horrible, but he hadn't felt any sharp jabs of pain, and he most certainly wasn't wounded. That meant nobody on his side had died. When an attack to place on his country, physical injuries appeared on his body. When he lost men, stabbing pains would shoot through his heart, especially men he served with, or grew close to. He didn't want to imagine the pains that were probably coursing through Russia at this very moment.

"Cover me," he heard Soap say to his left.

He and Gaz had holed up in a small wooden hut, firing up the hill. Soap was loading a small grenade into a black tube on the underside of his rifle. He stood, and squeezed its trigger. A small, hollow, pop could be heard, and the broken debris in front of them shattered as the grenade exploded, killing three men. Just as soon as the fighting had started, it ended. Kamarov glanced wildly at the hill. Arthur had only just noticed a derelict power station atop it.

"This way! We can support my men from the cliffs!" he shouted, and ran to the right.

A cliff overlooked the raging village, where Kamarov's men continued to fight. They ran over, though Price sounded very annoyed now.

"What about that informant? He's running out of time."

Kamarov sounded equally irritated. It was clear the men did not enjoy each other's company.

"Then _help_ us! The quicker we can secure this village, the closer we are to securing your informant Captain Price."

Soap drew his sniper off its sling once again. He perched on the edge of the cliff, staring down the scope. He popped off shots, cutting down new reinforcements. The others fired down on the Ultranationalists with him. Arthur saw a broken house directly below, the roof torn off. Several Russians appeared, taking sniping positions of their own.

"Down there!" he said, pointing.

"I see them," Soap said, drawing a breath.

He killed them quickly, and Kamarov stood, smiling his ugly, crooked smile.

"Good, we are making progress. Follow me to the power station."

England turned to Gaz, who nodded at Kamarov and rolled his eyes, then punched his fist lightly into the palm of his hand. England understood and nodded back, and Gaz's eyes brightened. They soon reached the power station. It was very high up, a perfect sniping position. Soap looked questioningly at Price, who shook his head. Kamarov was immersed in the sight of the war below, drawing out a pair of binoculars.

"Look, the final assault has already begun. With a little bit more of your sniper support-"

Kamarov was suddenly, and very rudely, England thought, cut off. Price had nodded to Gaz, and the younger man shot forward, grabbing the back of Kamarov's uniform and slamming him against the concrete wall, holding half his body over the edge of the cliff. Kamarov screamed incoherent Russian at them, his pudgy legs wiggling in fear as he stared down the face of the cliff. Gaz yelled loudly into his ear.

"Enough sniping! Where is the informant?"

Soap could barely suppress a laugh, and England could not at all. The sight was truly hilarious. Kamarov shouted desperately in Russian, clawing at the sides of the cliff.

"Where is he?" Gaz yelled louder.

"The house! The house at the Northeast end of the village!" Kamarov screamed desperately, choking back a sob.

Gaz was satisfied, dragging him back and shoving him away.

"Good, now that wasn't so hard was it? Now go sit in the corner," he said, turning away from the stinky Russian.

Kamarov sank to a sitting position, closing his eyes and muttering prayers to himself. England chuckled, then turned to Soap, who was growing red in the face with laughter. Price smirked a bit, then got back to business.

"Soap, Gaz, Kirkland, we've got to get to that house and recover the informant, let's go!"

Now this was an entirely new concept to England. He watched in mild horror as Gaz and Soap hooked rappel lines to the concrete wall of the power station and climbed onto the wall. They hooked up, and jumped off backwards, and England was sure Soap had winked at him before jumping. England felt a bit woozy, probably how Kamarov felt right about now.

"Never rappelled before? It's easy, come on," Price said reassuringly, hooking Arthur's and his own rappel line up.

They climbed up together, and Price nodded at him. They jumped. The air rushed through England's messy blonde hair as he flew downwards. He almost cried out until his feet softly met the rock wall. He pushed off after Price and slid to the ground, unhooking the rappel from his belt, realizing his hands were shaking.

"Bloody hell," he murmured, before pulling out his rifle.

The village in front of them was a huge battlefield. A burning tank sat in the center, rubble scattered around it. Ultranationalists were running everywhere, while small, concentrated groups of Loyalists took shots at them. An open set of buildings stood directly in front of England, and he sprinted for it. Inside, he found bodies riddled with bullet holes. Soap leaned against the wall, waiting for his squad to catch up. England laughed at the sight of him, triumphant and joyful. Soon, Price and Gaz caught up with them. Price commanded them up the hill at the end of the houses.

"Bloody hell, he may still be alive. Let's move," he said.

They left the sounds of battle behind. England's heart thumped hard in his chest, and it was hard to swallow. He actually liked their informant Nikolai, and hoped dearly that they weren't to late. A huge house loomed ahead, lights shining from its windows. The front porch was to easy, so they went to the side door.

"Gaz, go around back and cut the power. Soap, Kirkland, on me," Price said, making haste.

He adjusted his night vision lens, and Soap pulled his down over his eyes. England quickly pulled his own bulky goggles down, amazed at how clearly he could see through the green vision.

"Powers out sir," Gaz's voice said.

"Go," Price said, opening the door.

**Saudi Arabia  
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**U.S. Army Headquarters  
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**October 2011, Day 2**

"Gear up Marines, get a move on!" Vasquez was shouting commands to his squad.

Dozens of U.S. Marines scrambled about, pulling on gear and checking their weapons, sliding live magazines into their rifles. Helicopters touched down in the small airfield, loading in men. Alfred rushed to his squad, taking a seat next to Jackson.

"Think we'll nail this guy?" Jackson asked over the sound of rotors.

"Yeah dude, no problem! Al Asad is done for," America said, smiling happily.

"Where the hell do you get your confidence man?" Jackson said, chuckling.

"Gotta' keep a positive attitude on things! My, uh, brother was always a grumpy guy. I try to keep upbeat!"

"Well you sure do a great job of it."

Vasquez pushed into his own helicopter, directly across from theirs. He gave the thumbs up to open communications, and America switched on his earpiece. He was used to this kind of procedure, always fighting with his men whenever a conflict arose.

"Everyone hear me? Good. Remember, stay alert, stay alive. Watch each others backs out there, okay? Jackson, you, Jones, and me are hitting the building directly, with backup close by. We set up defensive perimeters, wire and road blocks. We don't let this guy escape, understand?" Vasquez growled into the microphone.

"Roger that sir," America said, giving a salute.

The helicopter rumbled, and lifted off the ground. America leaned out the window, taking in the view.

**Russia**

**Cacausus Mountains**

**October 2011, Day 2**

England was sure his own heartbeat would give them away. The house was very dark, but he could see clearly. Beams of light illuminated from their red dot sights, marking their targets. He was horrified, scared. He didn't want to be, but somehow, his confidence had degraded. In the second world war, he had been quite comfortable with battle. Of course, he had been wounded badly during the London Bombings, but that was beyond his control. When the country was damaged, he was physically wounded.

Shouting from around the corner. Arthur turned it and saw a Russian standing there, calling into the next room. He was sure he heard the name Victor, and 'electricity' distinctly amongst the foreign language. He raised his rifle and shot him, silenced rounds pumped into the mans head.

"These night vision goggles make it to easy," Price said, and England was sure he was smirking.

They walked through the small dining room and into the hallway. Another soldier was groping the wall, whispering and holding a pistol. Soap put three rounds into him, and he slid down the wall with a thud. They continued up the stairs, and another man sat there, pistol in hands. At the slam of a door that made England jump, the Russian fired his pistol blindly. He was silenced by Soap, who killed him swiftly. That gave away their position.

"Watch the left!" Price hissed, and a door flew open, spotlights shining into the sitting room.

A battle cry erupted and a Russian charged out, firing wildly with an AK47. England cried out in shock and fired back, dropping him swiftly.

"Nice," Soap said.

England muttered his thanks, and Soap continued to take point, entering the last room. Suddenly, a man with a flashlight stood there, a pistol at Soap's face. He charged and smashed the gun from his hand, then swiftly drove his knife into the man's neck. The flashlight rolled from the dead soldiers hand and shone into the corner. England gasped at the sight of a bruised and bloody man, scrambling back and muttering something in Russian. Price stepped forward and grabbed the flashlight, shining it into the man's face.

"It's him," he confirmed.

England breathed a sigh of relief. Nikolai was alive.

"Nikolai, are you alright? Can you walk?" Gaz asked, concerned.

"Yes, I can still fight. Thank you for getting me out of here," Nikolai said.

His voice sounded a bit weak, like he may have been tired. England imagined it was from the beatings he had received from the Ultranationalists. England stepped to him with a smile, handing him a gun he had found on the floor.

"Nikolai, I'm so glad you're alright. How are you friend?" England said, grasping Nikolai's hand and patting him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Arthur, it's been alright, apart from this mess," Nikolai said, motioning to the bodies, then his bruises.

"I can only imagine. We have a chopper waiting," England said, leading Nikolai out.

He caught Soap's gaze, who was thoroughly confused. England understood that it may have been a bit of a shock to him that he and Nikolai were old friends. They headed outside, waiting for Price to give the okay to their ride.

"Big Bird this is Bravo Six, we have the package. Meet us at LZ one, over."

"Bravo Six, this is Big Bird. Were on our way. Out."

England assisted Nikolai across the field around the back of the house. A helicopter soon came into view, landing gently in the soft grass.

"Let's go, let's go!" Price ordered.

He climbed into the chopper first, followed by Soap. England helped Nikolai into the chopper, then climbed in next to Soap. Gaz sat to his left, leaning his head back with gratitude. Nikolai was quick with the inevitable question, quickly raising his head to listen.

"Have the Americans already attacked Al Asad?"

"No, their invasion begins in a few hours, why?"

What Nikolai said next made England's heart sink.

"The Americans are making a mistake. They will never take Al Asad alive."

**A/n: First of all, this chapter took me so long to complete! Im sooooorrrryyyyy! Please forgive me? It was kinda difficult to make a more serious side to England, especially in battle. I hope i did okay :p next chapter will be America! Happy holidays everyone!**


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